Author's note and disclaimer: I don't own LOTR, or any parts thereof. Alastair, however is mine. Comments, criticism, and rambling responses eagerly awaited!

Chapter One

One thousand years of peace.

A luxurious sigh clouded on the frosty air, panted from the mouth of a lone rider. A dark warm cloak was drawn about him for comfort, the gentle clop of his black horse's hooves thudding against the damp loam. The last evening's rains had cleared for a misty dawn, pale golds and oranges painting the morning sky. The traveler's hair was still damp, a dark mahogany that fell to his shoulders, his skin faintly tanned by the sun. A smile traced his lips at the twill of birdsong in the large trees above, shading his tall, lithe form from the rising sun, his gray eyes glittering in the shadows.

One thousand years since the fall of Mordor. Such a shame all he had heard were the tales from the lips of his trainer, of the great last battle, of all the ancient heroes that had faded away across the sea and to the shadows of time. He looked down at a silver ring on his finger, imagining for a moment he had taken the place of one of those glorious heroes. The lad was still young, really, only sixteen, only old enough to travel alone, young enough to daydream still.

His horse snorted, ears pricking as a forehoof struck the earth out of time with the rest, nostrils flaring with some unknown scent. His rider paid him no heed, touching the sword at his hip, imagining the shining blade whirling at the head of some vile orc. The blade was of an older make, by the hands of men and lightly touched with the magic of the ancient elves.

He sighed at the thought. Even the fair immortals were all but lost to legend, faded into the West. He closed his eyes for a few moments, his horse snorting softly again. The stallion danced a few steps, ears pricked and neck arched warily. Then again, the animal had always been rather skittish, no more than a pack animal, meant as a runner for messages between towns.

The lad opened his eyes again at the snap of a twig. Of course, there was never any danger in these parts; he knew the lands well, and never had he seen more than a few deer, and once a wandering bear when he was younger. Still, he listened closer, frowning as his stallion backed up a bit with nostrils flared.

"What's the matter with you, Bolt?" He murmured to the horse, holding the reins a bit firmer. "It's probably just a squirrel..."

The stallion whinnied, shying away again and rolling his eyes. Suddenly, he reared, and his rider was thrown in his surprise. He hit the ground hard, rolled a few paces, then looked up in time to see his horse galloping away, tail and mane streaming out behind him.

"Bolt! Bolt!" He cried uselessly, scowling as he picked himself up. The fool of a horse, spooking over—

He stopped, wrinkling his nose as some foul odor suddenly drifted to him, the stink of blood and decay, mud and sweat and grime. His hand fell to his sword, slowly turning towards where he had heard the sound of the snapping twig. The breeze blew straight towards him, blowing his hair back out of his face again.

With a sudden thunk, an arrow buried into the tree alongside his head. Eyes widening, he stared at it for a moment, then hastily drew his sword. It was still a bit long and heavy for him, made for a full-bloomed adult, but he could manage it well enough. To the dark woods he called: "I am Alastair, son of Lobane, son of Endrod! Who goes there?"

The list of names, truly, was rather unimpressive. No great heroes or warriors in his lineage, simple soldiers and wanderers, even a few of more unsavory origins. No one extraordinarily good or evil, no Kings of light or dark. Still, his call to the woods came bold. It was probably just some mistaken hunter, anyway; there had never been any foul creatures in these parts, not since the shadow was cleared from Middle-Earth.

A harsh cackle came at his demand, and his eyes widened further when he saw a somewhat stooped, dirty, and ugly form come out of the shadows and for him. Red slitted eyes blinked curiously at him, wide mouth curled into a wicked smirk. Tattered clothing hung off red-painted, or perhaps bloodstained, skin, a chipped, curved scimitar in a clawed hand. Four others of equal vulgarity stumped behind him. Goblins, Alastair realized, his heart jumping into his throat as he held his sword out before him still. Goblins in their peaceful wood!

One of the five clicked his teeth, looking over the lad. "Now what's a tasty little morsel like you doin' out 'ere all alone?"

Another ran his claw along a dented, but sharp, ax. "Where's all the rest of your stinkin' village, eh?"

Slowly, the goblins were spreading out as they came towards him, fanning around him. Alastair stumbled back a bit, putting his back to a tree. He straightened up, doing his best to look intimidating. "What is your business here?" He demanded, raising his voice, his knuckles white as he clenched his sword. "Begone!"

The goblins cackled. "Or what?" One challenged, tilting his head and licking his lips. "You're goin' to stop us?"

One of the foul creatures made a grab for him, and on instinct he whirled, flashing his heavy sword. The blade bit into the goblin's chest, and it fell back with a shrill shriek, black blood staining the shining weapon and splattering onto the young man's hands. He recoiled in disgust, but didn't have any time to contemplate the last twitches of the creature. The other four immediately leapt on him.

Alastair hit the ground breathless, but slashing, his sword flashing in the growing sunlight, taking out the first two. He cried out in surprise as a dagger was thrust towards his stomach. He rolled enough to avoid the intended blow, scraping his skin and pinning his cloak and tunic to the damp earth, instead. He kicked up, knocking his attacker windless. Ripping loose, he bulled his shoulder into the last standing goblin, then thrust at him. His sword took the creature through the stomach, before it slid off with a gurgle.

Alastair, shaking with adrenaline, looked down at the last live goblin, who sneered up at him, scrambling back and away. "Begone!" He repeated, his voice not as strong, trembling, really, but his sword was steady, pointing at his attacker.

The goblin regained his feet, hissing, and backing away. He spat at the ground at the lad's feet. "Jus' you wait, you whelp. Jus' you wait..." Backing away still, the goblin faded off into the shadows, snarling and muttering to himself still.

Alastair looked down at the four dead goblins at his feet, then at his blade stained with black blood. His knees were shaking, stunned. Slowly, the light of battle faded from his eyes. His first battle. It had all happened so quickly...he could hardly believe it. No, he couldn't believe it. Looking back, he called for his horse again, but the forest was empty. Even the birds had quieted. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, his mouth dry, he sheathed his sword again. He had a scratch on his side, his left cheek was gashed open, and his right hand was cut, but he was none the worse for wear. The realization hit him, and he smiled, albeit painfully. Out of pure relief he laughed to the morning air, shaking his hair from his face.

Then, he looked after where the last goblin had disappeared. What if there were more of them? Gathering himself again, he turned and ran off back towards his village. There was evil in his home. He had to tell the others, warn them.

One thousand years of peace could only last so long.